At the Playground's Edge
by Liza Hayes
Summary: Dean pushes Soulless Sam over the edge and Ruby's knife comes out to play. Set sometime during Season 6, while the boys are still trying to figure out how to get Sam's soul back. Rated NC-17. Knife-play, blood kink, PWP, angst, dub-con, wincest, implied weecest, some graphic violence. Betas: reasonablywittyatbest and enamourous..


At the Playground's Edge

Sammy coughs up another mouthful of blood. It bubbles over his teeth and rolls down his chin in a cascade of crimson liquid, thick and dark and glistening with saliva. Dean watches it drip to the ground and grits his teeth, jaw twitching, before he turns back to the cornered demon. No one got to hurt Sam, but him. No one. And this demon was about to learn why.

"You're a treat, you know that?" Dean snarls, but the demon only grins, eyes flashing to a lightning blue. It twists his wrist again and Sam vomits up more blood that sprays the floor as he coughs on his hands and knees. "Another crossroads demon. How many of you do I have to kill? What the hell are you doin' here? Making deals?"

"Of course. It's what we do _Dean_."

"Not when I'm around, you sonofabitch," he says, leaping forward with Ruby's knife in hand. The demon takes a swing at his head, but he ducks and slams the demon into the wall beside Sam's prone body. He lets the knife trail across the demon's throat, leaving a hard red line of blood standing out against his pale skin. The demon shrieks in pain, light glittering across the cut. "You hurt my brother."

"He's not your brother anymore," the demon whispers, eyes glittering and challenging. Dean snarls and stabs the knife into the monster's chin, all the way up to the hilt and presses his face close as the demon sparks his way into oblivion, eyes flaring orange before he vanishes. Dean unwinds his fist from the man's jacket. His limp body drops to the ground with a satisfying thump at the same time Dean's knees slam into the concrete and he pulls Sam's head into his lap.

"Sammy buddy, you okay?" he whispers, but Sam's only reaction is to spit up more blood. Dean begins to worry that the demon has twisted up his insides, worse than Dean imagined. "You idiot, why the hell did you try to do this alone?"

"You were busy Dean. I knew I could handle it. I'll be fi-" he coughs again.

"Obviously not," Dean snaps, rage filling him again. This soulless Sam was damaged and stupid sometimes, no sense of self-preservation keeping him alive. More importantly, he wasn't trying to keep his body safe for the return of real Sammy and his soul. It infuriated Dean and stung deep, because there was nothing he could do until they figured out how to get Sammy's soul out of the cage. "You gotta take better care of yourself. This is the only meat suit you've got."

"You did not just call me a meat suit."

"Too much time with demons, man. Up you get." Sammy chuckles and swipes a sleeve across his face, sopping up the blood that's running down his face.

Dean huffs and hauls Sam to his feet, draping Sam's arm around his shoulder and hauling him up the staircase and out to the Impala. As they drive back to the motel, Sam starts to perk up – the pain easing away and leaving him to recover in the passenger seat.

As soon as they enter the motel room, Sam wanders into the bathroom, running water into the sink so that he can rinse the blood from his mouth. Dean leans casually into the doorway and watches him.

"Are you going to be there the whole time?" he asks, glowering up into the mirror. Dean's eyes meet his in their reflection, before jerking away nervously.

"Whatever. I just want to make sure you're all right."

"I'm going to take a shower," Sam says, snapping the door closed. Dean sits on the edge of the bed and drops his head into his hands. A moment later he hears the spray of the water and relaxes. A break from Sammy is what he needs, at the same time he's still worried and reluctant to leave his brother alone. With any luck, the younger Winchester will take a long shower and Dean can catch his breath again.

He sits on the edge of the bed sharpening his knife when Sam emerges from the shower, a towel held around his waist with one hand, his blood soaked clothing in the other. Dean tenses at the sight of the blood soaked flannel of Sammy's shirt; jaw twitching again in irritation as his teeth grind together. Sam shouldn't be getting hurt this way. Only one of the Winchester brothers was supposed to get hurt, to be soaked in his own blood, and that was Dean. Everything he had done was to prevent Sammy from being bathed in his own blood. Everything was to keep his little brother safe, but this soulless monstrosity that had replaced him didn't care about any of that.

He stood up suddenly, ready to storm out of the room to the bar down the street, before realizing that he too was wearing blood soaked flannel. Wandering the streets in his current state would probably result in problems for the both of them. He lets his hand fall away from the door handle and swears quietly under his breath, turning towards the bathroom instead.

Sam stands in front of him in his towel, one eyebrow raised questioningly. Dean made to push past him and into the shower, but Sam steps to the side, blocking his path. Dean looks up into the taller man's eyes and frowns at what he saw there. "Get out of my way man, I'm filthy."

"What's your problem Dean? I thought you cared about me, soulless or not."

Dean turns away from him and sits on the bed, tugging his boots off.

"You don't care about me at all. You just want your _Sammy_ back," he drawls sarcastically.

Dean strips both of his shirts off in unison, trying to avoid dragging the blood soaked bits across his face, before he tosses them in a corner to be washed later, when they can find a Laundromat. Preferably, one that doesn't ask too many questions….

He unbuckles his belt and slides his jeans down around his ankles, kicking them off into the same corner where the rest of his clothing has already gone. His socks follow a moment later.

"Maybe you'll never get me back to the way I was Dean, have you thought about that?"

"You're not _him_," Dean snarls, grabbing the knife from the bed and brandishing it at Sammy. "You're just some shell. Some wannabe replacement. I want _my_ Sammy back."

"I _am_ him!"

"No. You're not and you never will be. You're a freak." Dean freezes when he registers what he's just said. He already knows that it's a mistake. He always avoided calling Sammy a freak, he knew it hurt his little brother, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. This Sam though, this soulless man standing before him, fuming in a towel… Dean didn't know what his reaction to the word would be. Soulless Sammy didn't have hurt feelings, but he'd proven that he had anger and for the briefest moment fear flared in the pit of Dean's stomach as he stumbled to apologize.

"Sam, I-" is all he manages to get out before one stride of Sam's long legs carries him across the room and one hard swing of his fist causes Dean's lips to spilt across his teeth painfully. Slam grabs the handprint on Dean's shoulder with one hand and slams him against the wall with the other, knocking Dean's wrist into the jagged metal decoration there. Dean drops the knife with a wince as his skin splits open and fire jolts along his nerves with the bite of the iron's jagged edge. Sam snarls into Dean's face, but it fails to intimidate him.

Dean's instinctual reactions take over, replacing his natural desire to protect Sam, and he lashes out with his head, splitting Sam's eyebrow open and forcing him to step back. He leaps for the knife on the ground, but Sam recovers in time to deal him a solid kick to the ribs, knocking him to the carpet. He rolls onto his back with a huff of plain, clutching at his side. Sam grabs the knife and moves to pin Dean down, but Dean's foot lashes out, clipping his knee and sending him toppling to the carpet as well. Dean snatches at the knife, misses, and grabs Sam's wrist instead. The two brothers roll on the ground until Sam finally manages to pin Dean beneath his heavier body, leaning close to his face with the knife against his throat.

"I am Sammy. I'm sorry I'm not the Sammy you want me to be - your pathetic baby brother – weak, an addict. This is what I am now, and until, we find away to return my soul."

"If you even want it back," Dean spits pink-tinged saliva into Sam's face, which immediately fills with rage and results in the bite of steel against Dean's throat. He swallows experimentally, Adam's apple bobbing against its freshly sharpened edge.

"Sam," he starts again, but the look in Sam's eyes draws him up short. He swallows again, acutely aware of the sharpness of the blade and that his Sammy would never hurt him… but this Sammy is a different story, one that Dean isn't totally sure how to handle - a grenade with a loose pin that could fall out at any moment.

Sam moves the knife so that its cold edge no longer sits against Dean's Adam's apple, instead pressing it to the side of his neck, just below his jaw with the point pressing firmly against his skin. Dean moves to spit blood at him again and Sam snarls in anger. He pushes down hard and feels the tip of the blade pierce Dean's skin. He watches as a bead of blood forms around the tip, welling against the sharpened steel, before rolling languidly down Dean's neck. It forms a smooth, curved line of shiny color as it trails the sinews of his throat, before dripping onto the dirty hotel carpet. Sam knows it isn't demon blood, but he still feels it call to him. He wonders what Dean would taste like.

He's tasted other parts of Dean in the small hours of the night as children, as teenage boys growing up together on the road with no one else to turn to. Dean taught Sam everything when they were growing up, all the little things that matter to life and happiness, the things that their father failed to teach them in his preoccupation with revenge. John taught them about demons and hunting, but from each other they'd learned about growing up and the importance of family. Sam remembered it, but felt nothing for the man lying beneath him. Dean, panting, eyes closed, swallowing against the cold steel of his knife. Dean taught Sam how to shave, he remembers, as he scrapes the edge of the blade along the stubble that coats his brother's jaw.

Dean taught him how to cook, how to mend his clothes, how to hustle pool and how to pick up girls. Dean led him through childhood and adolescence, teaching himself first then passing the knowledge down to Sammy, teaching him how to grow up and be a man. What that meant and all else that came with it, complete mistakes and accepting responsibility for them. Dean taught Sam how to touch himself (first and foremost, because a boy has needs) and how to kiss and what it felt like to take and be taken. Memories of sweat slicked skin and thunderstorms, awaiting their fathers return and whiling away the hours with alcohol that they shouldn't have had filled Sam's head. Where love had once been there was now only lust: a desire to kiss and bite and fuck and feel his skin sliding against Dean's until he tumbled over the threshold of orgasm.

As children, those close, shared spaces meant that they had no secrets. So Sam knew the taste of Dean's sweat after a hunt, when they huddled together on a motel mattress, holding each other for comfort and solidity, proving their existence, and the knowledge that they would live to see another hunt. Neither would admit to the fear, or the frantic touches, caressing each other's bruises and offering what comfort they could from their chaotic lives. He knows the taste of Dean's mouth, sweet and usually tinged with the sharp bite of whiskey or the musty tang of beer, after he drags himself home from seedy bars looking for release. He knows the taste of Dean's come from those same late nights, those same reassurances, turned from chaste, comforting kisses to something darker.

Something wrong, he'd often thought. Not wrong for them though, it was the only right thing for them - the only option for two lost brothers. But it wrong in others' eyes. He remembers the feelings of wrongness, and rightness, and the confusion and fear that accompanied sex with his brother, but now he feels nothing. No moral sense of wrong or right, nothing to stop him or stay his hand. No guilt.

He knows that he's tasted Dean's blood before, but in the heat of battle as it sprays from a wound an into his open, gasping mouth. He's never taken the time to relish the intimacy of that taste and that connection, jumping straight to worry or action instead. So he leans down and crosses that line again, between brotherhood and the something-more that has sustained them all their lives. For the first time since his return from the cage, he leans down and presses his mouth to Dean's, tasting sweetness and warmth as Dean opens his mouth and their breath tangles together, becoming indistinguishable. Then he trails his tongue through the line of blood, taking the savory liquid into his mouth. It tastes tart and rich and full of life, without the addictive pull of demon blood to take in more - more now, as much as he can, to drown himself in it. He soaks up the sensual connection, letting the taste of Dean's life linger on his tongue. Relishing in the freedom from addiction. Dean moans again and pushes his head back, opening up to Sam, who swipes his tongue along the cut again, lapping at the rich warm blood that continues to well from the cut.

"Sam-" Dean gasps lightly, voice rasping on the word as if it hurts to say it.

Dean no longer struggles against him, so Sam slides the knife down his throat, the cold steel tip biting into his skin and carving a rough white line. Not hard enough to pierce the thin skin, but Dean can still feel the sharpness and fear singing along his nerves. He drags the knife hard enough to leave only a temporary mark, but he knows that a little harder would leave scars. He stops at the hollow of Dean's throat and draws the knife across his collarbone, sharp and swift, eliciting a shocked gasp from Dean who bucks his hips against Sam's naked thighs. Sam slides his tongue along the cut, licking across Dean's collarbone to bite against his shoulder, still pressing the tip of the knife against his skin.

There's no affection behind Sammy's eyes, no love buried in the bites that he lathed across Dean's skin. There's no gentleness in the cuts, no softness as his tongue probes the slices he's layering into Dean's skin. Worst of all is that Dean is enjoying it. He writhes against the fierceness behind Sam's eyes and revels in the way the pain and pleasure mixed to create a heady feeling, like being drunk, like being drugged. It hurt to see Sam like this, but with the pain it felt less like Sam, there were few similarities between this man and the Sammy that Dean raised.

Dean feels pinned down like an insect in some collection, needles piercing his body, slowly killing him, drying him out, and leaving behind nothing but a husk. He tries to convince himself that Sam isn't doing this, isn't enjoying this, but it's hard when he's enjoying the pain and the sting of Sam's sweat dripping into the cuts on his body. It's hard when he can see Sam's cock stiffening against the rough white towel that now drapes across one leg. Dean can feel his own penis responding to his brother's arousal and to the streams of blood that he can feel trickling across his skin. His brother's tongue is warm and smooth, stinging lightly as it probes his wounds and laps at his blood. Dean shivers with pleasure as it dances across his skin and Sam leans back, looking down at him.

He's torn open now, emotionally butterflied by his brother's feral, piercing stare. It rips his skin and cracks his ribs, exposing him, carving him with pain and fear at his brother's touch, his lover's touch, turned wrong. These feelings are twisted and cruel, but unlike anything else and Dean wants more. Wants to erase the connection between this knife and Alistair's and replace it with Sammy. He wants Sam to fill him and make him feel whole again, to flow into the missing bits of Dean and block up the cracks. He wants it, he's desperate to feel complete, but he knows he never will be as long as Sam's soul is missing.

His mind jolts back to his time in Hell and he's filled with an overwhelming, guilty reminder of what he did there, to other souls trapped in that terrible place. All of the things he did at Alistair's bidding, to make his own pain stop, and eventually the things that he did willingly for Alistair, because pleasure in that place was even greater than the cessation of pain. Treasured and valued, it was a precious commodity and in short supply. Not love, never that, but sometimes a twisted kind of affection from his teacher when Dean succeeded at inflicting more pain than he had in the last session. Gentle touches as a reward each time he honed his ability to torment lost souls. Each time he created more demons for Hell's army.

This will be empty, meaningless, unfulfilling, but he needs it and his desire overwhelms the logical part of his brain. He ruts against Sam's thighs again, panting, but winces when Sam's knife cuts him again beneath his nipple. He stills, eyes closed, breathing through his nose and he waits. He feels Sam's weight shift forward and moans softly when his brother laps the blood from the wound, then takes Dean's nipple into his mouth, sucking. He rolls the bud against his teeth, biting down hard before releasing it and flicking his tongue across it one more time. He leaves behind a bloody lip print and a sting that pulses in Dean's mind and heightens his arousal.

Sam nips at the bruise on Dean's ribs and then runs his tongue along the lean line of his stomach as Dean arches up into the touch. He knicks Dean with the knife again, just below the line of his ribs. He remembers Cas's handprint, marking Dean and the Enochian sigils carved into their ribs as well. He digs the knife in harder at the memory, carving a mark of his own into Dean's skin. He feels no brotherly affection for Dean, but he feels possessive. He feels the need to mark his territory with blood and hurt and he swipes his hand through the blood again, sliding slick wet fingers across Dean's chest as he rasps his teeth against Dean's hipbone. He feels the need to remind Dean of what they once had, and how Dean belongs to him and always has. He leaves small, dark marks across his skin, slowly working his way down to the line of Dean's boxers. He mouths wetly at the cotton fabric, tented by his stiffening cock. Then, with one swift cut, he slices the cloth away and throws it into the corner. Dean's erection bobs freely, beckoning to Sam's mouth and memories, but he ignores it. Instead, he traces his lips and teeth along the inside of Dean's thigh and flicks the knife again, with a pleasant gasp from his brother.  
He trails his tongue through the blood again, smoothing it across the skin of Dean's hard thighs with his lips and teeth. His fingernails rasp against the sensitive skin, and he digs them in when Dean shifts, ceasing his wriggling movements. He nips and bites, leaving a pattern of purple bruises along the inside of one leg, before licking at the base of his cock on his way to the other leg. He cuts the inside of this leg too, before biting down hard on the fresh cut, causing Dean to buck up against his teeth, increasing the pressure of the bite.

Dean yelps and then cringes at his own weakness, not knowing what it would do to the soulless Sam whose face was now buried between his legs. After a few more brief seconds of painful sucking, Sam's raises his head and crawls up Dean's torso, pressing a hot, bloody kiss against his mouth. Dean drinks him in, sucking at Sam's blood soaked tongue. He trails his hands up Sammy's smooth back and moves to twine his fingers into his hair, but Sam pulls away, bringing the knife up again to rest against Dean's throat.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asks, winding his bloody fingers into Dean's hair and jerking his head back. He keeps the knife still, but nips and bites a line of bruises along Dean's jaw, before raking his teeth across his ear. Dean moan's softly, relishing the warmth of Sam's mouth as he sucks at the lobe of his ear, then cuts into his neck again to produce another train of crimson blood. Dean lets the feeling of submission wash over him, while Sam's fingernails dig into his scalp, sending tingles along his spine. He arches his back again, opening up to Sam's touch and grunting softly. Sam releases his biting hold on Dean's ear. "That's what I thought," he whispers, sliding back down Dean's chest and trailing the knife in a serpentine, carving motion.

Dean feels like Sam is mapping his body by using the soft gasps and moans that slide out of his throat, unbidden. Sam's knife trails along the most sensitive areas, stopping to bring forth pinpricks of blood. Dean feels the tiny cuts marking him like a roadmap, as Sam explores with teeth and tongue and blade. Memories bubble to the surface of Dean's mind, of a time when he and Sammy had learned about each other's bodies as teenagers. Sometimes their experiments were quiet and rushed, bring each other off with quick jerks and silent, sloppy kisses while their father slept off a hunt in the other bed. Other times their explorations were gentle and slow, educational, learning about the touches and sensations that felt good. They reveled in each other's touch, taking their slow sweet time while their father worked. They bettered themselves as lovers and taught each other skills that they would use on each other, and on girlfriends over the years.

Sam sees Dean's eyes roll closed, drifting into a different space, floating away inside himself. He decides to fix that, rolling his way down his brother's body, sucking and kissing until he reaches his cock. Dean moans as Sam trails his mouth along its underside and flicks his tongue across the tip, teasing him with soft touches, nipping at the inside of his thighs again and reopening the wounds he's carved there. His tongue flits across the skin each time he switches sides, leaving blood and saliva behind. Finally he takes Dean into his mouth, swallowing him down and relishing the gasp of pleasure that accompanies it. He goes slowly, rolling his tongue along the shaft and sucking deeply, pulling his Dean's cock deep into his mouth. He pulls the warm heat of his mouth away with a soft popping sound, and Dean moans as the cool air of the room dances across his skin and chilling him. Sam moves down to mouth at Dean's balls, nipping gently at the taut skin drawing out gasps and shivers. He moves back up to wrap his lips around Dean's cock, sucking harder and bobbing up and down.

Dean reaches for Sam's hair again, trying desperately to twist his fingers into those long, golden brown strands. He needs to control the pace, needs to take some of the power away from Sammy. Sweat is making Sam's hair curl into ringlets that tumble across his forehead, and for a moment Dean sees the Sammy that he misses, his baby brother's face and hair. Sammy's hands and lips working away between his legs and bring out his moans of pleasure. Then Sam looks up and his eyes meet Dean's, chasing away any feelings of brotherly love Dean may have felt. This Sammy's eyes are hard and dark, lacking the playful sparkle that they once had. The look they give him makes Dean's stomach clench unpleasantly. The fear passes and he sinks his fingers into Sammy's thick hair and slows the pace of his brother's sucking, gasping with relief when the pressure eases and he pulls himself back from the edge. Sam's annoyance is evident as he pulls his hot mouth away from Dean's cock and rocks back on his knees. Dean feels the fear flooding his veins again when he feels Sam's body wrenched away from his own.

Annoyed, Sam grabs his discarded towel and wraps it around Dean's neck, standing up and pulling him to his feet as well. Dean stumbles when Sam spins him around, pushing him onto the bed with the towel beneath his head. He pushes Dean's body up towards the headboard, feeling the roughness of the coverlet against his forearms. Dean winces when his ribs slap against the bed but takes the pain in stride as Sam once again spreads his legs, commanding them open farther with the hard press of the knife against the inside of his thigh. Sam pushes his legs up, exposing the crack of Dean's ass. He leans forward and pushes his tongue against the ring of muscle there, probing and suddenly thrusting inside, bring a gasp from Dean's lips. His tongue darts in and out, caressing the space and he can feel Dean relax from the initial shock, taking it in and opening up beneath his brother's tongue. Blood drips down his thighs again as the wounds reopen from the rough push of Sam's arms holding them apart. He drags one finger through the blood then pushes the slicked digit into his brother's hole, eliciting another sharp gasp. He feels Dean's muscles tighten again, but instead of working to relax him he slides in a second finger, pushing and probing while Dean's hole twitch against him. He pulls himself up along Dean's body again, kissing his throat and dragging his teeth along his chest and nipples again. Dean rocks his body up again, letting the sensations wash over him and Sam slips in a third finger, spreading them apart slightly and pushing in deeper than before. He smirks with satisfaction when Dean practically whimpers with the spread of his fingers.

Dean knows that his gasps of pain won't make Sam ease up, and he doesn't want him to. Instead he rocks into the motion, pushing his ass down against Sam's fingers, welcoming in the roughness of his dry skin. Blood makes an unsatisfactory lubricant, but it's better than nothing and it feels novel. Sam's barely moistened fingers drag out the sensation, balancing it on the border between pleasure and pain before the third finger pushes it over the edge. Dean welcomes it though, the warm burning sensation working its way along his nerves and making his whole body dance and tingle. Sam sucks at one of his nipples, playing with the hard nib while salt drips from his chin and stings in the cuts on his chest. Sam's dropped the knife beside them on the bed so that his other hand is free to work at Dean's cock, stroking blood along the shaft, letting it mingle with the pre-come beading at the tip. He jerks in a smooth twisting motion, drawing out the sensation and working in unison with the fingers in his brother's ass, stroking against his prostate. Dean's body bucks and he bears down hard on Sam's roving fingers, feeling his orgasm building warm and low in his stomach. Sam pushes hard again with his fingers, thrusting his own body between Dean's legs and pushing, stroking him towards the edge. When Dean's body starts to arch again, he moves away, hand dropping from his brother's cock and fingers sliding out of his ass, rasping against the sensitive muscle and making Dean groan deep in his throat.

Sam suddenly flips him over, denying him release. Sometimes Dean forgets how much larger Sam is and how much strength is stored in those tightly packed muscles. Dean cringes with pain again as the cuts on his body reopen and the twisting motion wrenches his surely broken ribs. His face is slammed into the pillow and he can feel his lip splitting again, flooding his mouth with the iron tang of his own blood once more. Sam buries his face in the warm flesh of Dean's ass again, tongue probing against the opening and lubricating the entrance. Dean pushes himself up on his hands and knees, spreading his legs wide and rocking backwards slightly. He feels Sam's warm breath sliding across his ass again and prepares himself for the warm, slick sensation of his brother's tongue again. Instead, Sam swipes one bloody, spit coated hand across the tip of his cock, aligns it with the tight opening of Dean's ass and rocks forward, pushing into him. Dean shouts as the white hot, stinging sensation of his brother's poorly lubricated cock pushes into him inch by inch. He fights the urge to stuff his fist in his mouth to contain the whimpers that he can't seem to control.

Another thing he forgets is how well hung his baby brother is. There was nothing little about Sammy anymore and Dean was now acutely aware of that as his brother's cock stretched him wide. Fire races along his back and he cringes, as the pain radiates out. He whimpers blindly as it hits the cuts and bruises that dot his skin, until he only feels pain and a deep ache in his chest. He bites down hard on his lip, filling his mouth with blood again and adding to the splits that are already there.

Sam drags Dean's head back by his hair again, pulling Dean back onto his cock until Dean can feel his brother's balls against his skin. Dean gasps through the blood in his mouth, breathing in the sharp tang and choking slightly on the aspirated blood. Sam grins to himself and pulls back again, slowly with his own light hiss of pain, and then he begins to rock slowly. Pushing in and out in shallow thrusts that grow deeper as Dean's muscles relax. Even with Sam's fingers clutching his hair, Dean rocks back on his own, welcoming the stinging, burning stretch and taking the full force of Sam's pounding thrusts as his pace increases. Sam releases his hair and he brings one hand up to stroke his own cock, but he suddenly feels the cold bite steel against his ribs and he drops his hand back to the bed. Sam rests one hand, and the knife, across Dean's back, balancing against him to keep the rhythm of his movements. His other hand reaches around to stroke Dean, excruciatingly slowly and out of time with the rest of his movements. Dean grunts his frustration, pushing back against his brother, trying to find some semblance of control so that he can get off too. But Sam pushes him back down again, sliding deep into his brother and leaning close to his face to whisper.

"Not this time _babe_. I'm in control. I call the shots." He traces the knife along Dean's throat again, roughly, drawing blood in tiny dashes as the tip scrapes over the thin skin. "Don't touch yourself again."

Dean gulps and his heart flutters but he stays still, letting Sam pull back out and slam into him again. Forcing their bodies together with a wet slide of skin. Sam's rhythm stutters as he pushes towards his own orgasm against the background noise of their bodies slapping together and the grunts and moans of pleasure from each brother. Finally he slides deep into Dean and lets out a soft, open-mouthed grunt of pleasure. Dean feels Sam orgasm inside of him and then his own body responds, gripping tightly around Sammy's cock. He drops over the edge of his own orgasm, coming in a thick, wet ribbon against the coverlet of the bed. He feels Sammy's cock twitching inside of him and he relishes the sensation. He remembers times before, shared between the two brothers and the same feeling of being filled up, but coming apart at the seams. He remembers the Sammy that he cares for – the Sammy that he loves and fears he may never see again. It brings tears to his eyes, but the stinging sensation of Sammy pulling out of his ass gives him a good cover as the pain of that makes his eyes water as well. The hypersensitive skin feels stretched and raw, and Dean can't tell if the blood is a result of the sex or the bite of the knife and finds that he doesn't care.

Sam tosses the knife to the ground and collapsed beside Dean on the bed, panting and covered in sweat. Dean lowers himself down beside his brother, with shaky arms and legs, avoiding the wet spot beneath himself. He can feel blood and come dripping down the inside of his legs, but his energy is too spent to care. Ignoring every instinct that tells him not to, Dean rolls to his side and presses a soft kiss against Sam's shoulder.

He just wants another brief moment of memory - another minute to remember the Sammy that he misses, that he loves. He can almost fool himself into thinking that its just Sam that he misses, and not, selfishly, the way Sam treated him. It isn't just Sam's eyes, it's the way those eyes were always filled with love for Dean. Adoration for his big brother sometimes accompanied by hurt, worry, or frustration, but always love beneath it all. He misses Sammy's bitch faces and sarcastic comments. He misses the smell of Sam's warm skin when they curled together at night, sharing one bed, though they paid for two, because they could. Because their secret was everything about themselves, and nothing at all if it spilled outside of their hearts or mouths, or even their motel room. Suddenly he regrets not telling Sammy that he loved him. He never said it enough and he never told Sammy how he loved him. Differently from the way brothers loved each other, different from the way partners loved each other, something deeper and more intimate than he can hope to vocalize.

He knows now that Sammy hasn't filled up the cracks in his soul, hasn't fixed him. He still feels the empty, gaping space deep inside himself. It seems to be slowly filling with hopelessness and exhaustion, which, he supposes, is better than nothing. He doesn't regret the sex, but he regrets how often it was a result of alcohol and lust, instead of love for his baby brother. He wished he'd shown Sammy more than that, more of himself, but he's pretty sure it's too late for that now.

He presses his face against the smooth, tattooed skin of Sam's chest and breathes in contentedly, but it only lasts a heartbeat before Sam jerks away from him and climbs out of bed, letting Dean's face fall back down into the bed. He winces as he becomes more acutely aware of the ache in his bruised ribs.

"I'm going to take another shower," he says, smirking down at Dean. He pulls the towel from beneath Dean's head and leaves him alone on the damp coverlet of the motel bed, with blood still pooling on his chest. He releases the breath… this Sammy even smells different.


End file.
